Dulce et Decorum Est
by gietzeng
Summary: Fortune favors the brave.


"It's a suicide mission." Mattison, the eternal pessimist.

"It can work!" Rains, bastion of unshakeable faith.

"We know the risks." Conyers, stalwart and resolute, unofficial leader of the triumvirate.

Others listen but stay silent, leaving the argument to the officers. No one wants a second Great Schism, so they refrain from taking sides.

"I'm not talking about _risk, _I'm talking about _suicide._"

"We'll be legends!"

"We'll be _corpses._"

"He's chickening out."

"Are you? Chickening out?" Silence falls as Conyers' voice echoes. Mattison senses the accusation implicit in the question. Some of the others stir, sensing blood in the water.

"I just want it noted that this is insane." Mattison's speech comes out clipped, verging on a mumble.

"It'll work. The plan is foolproof."

"So were all the others." Almost an afterthought. A half-hearted objection aimed at saving face.

"I've run it from a hundred different angles. There's nothing that can go wrong."

"Again." Very nearly a command.

"Right," Rains nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "We send in our point man _here_, with a wingman to neutralize any nearby hostiles. At the same time, we send in units _here_ and _here_, cordoning off the area to prevent reinforcements and secure our exit. This leaves us with an extra team for crowd control. Anyone tries to be a hero, and we take them out of play."

Conyers nods, the motion slow and contemplative.

Mattison scowls. "Wounded?" he asks, concern with the human cost of the mission emerging from his deep cynicism.

"I don't—"

"Operation this big, we're gonna have casualties. No way around it."

They lock eyes, momentarily at loggerheads. Both look to Conyers.

"He's… not wrong."

Mattison sits back. A long pause, then Mattison supplies, "What if we take one-in-three from guarding the exits, form them into a team to deal with casualties?"

Rains bites the inside of her cheek. "That'll work. Margin's a little tighter than I'd like, but it'll do."

"Who's the point man?" Conyers asks.

Rains takes a deep breath. "Everhart."

"Out of the question!" Mattison exclaims. "You can't even _think_—"

"Everhart has the greatest chance of success. The perfect cover story. It _has_ to be Everhart."

"We cannot ask—"

"Permission to speak?" pipes a young voice from the side.

The triumvirate turns as one to face the speaker, who has risen to his feet.

"Granted, Everhart. Let's hear it," instructs Conyers.

"I know the risks. But I believe in the mission, I believe in the cause. I would be _honored _if you chose me for this mission. Send me in and I'll make you all proud. And if I fail, I do so gladly."

Murmurs of approval, particularly from the younger set, always eager to prove their mettle before their elders.

"In favor?" Rains asks, raising her hand. Conyers follows suit. All eyes turn to Mattison.

He looks to Everhart, who stands at attention, face aglow with enthusiasm.

Mattison nods his assent. The room explodes into a frenzy of preparation.

Conyers barks orders and people scramble to comply. Rains pulls Everhart to her as they leave, already en route to the mission, Mattison close behind.

"Remember, stay focused on your objective. We'll deal with everything else, so _stay focused._"

"Right!"

"No plan survives first contact," Mattison supplies, "but we've got a lot of contingencies in place. Keep cool, and don't be a hero. If you need backup, _call_."

"Understood!"

They arrive at the mission site in a group and filter in casually, so as not to attract notice.

"You ready, kid?" Mattison asks. "Everything's in place, but you can back out if you want."

"No, sir!" Everhart exclaims. "I can do this!"

"We know you can," Rains adds, clapping the boy on the back. "Go to it."

Everhart stands up, fists clenched at his side.

"Nerves of steel," someone mutters.

He crosses the cafeteria and feels a thousand stares upon him as he counts the steps to his objective.

_Three… two… one…_

"Um, excuse me, Instructor Trepe, I was wondering if I… if you… if _we_…"

One eyebrow arches upward in slow motion and Everhart hears blood rushing in his ears as everything fades to black.

He does not know, as he loses consciousness, that later – much later, during his convalescence – that they will award him the Trepie Medal of Valor. Touched by this honor, he will not mention that he would trade it away for another chance.


End file.
